Holopause

There’s a mask that everyone wears To shield who they really are inside To hide ugly scars and bury fear So none will know of his inner strife There was a nervous man He had a violently palpitating heart It bangs on his ivory labyrinth of ribs He takes his mask, state-of-the-art A bead of sweat gathers on his lip He knows not of what this demands He was asked to sit in a dim lit place Streaks of hot glue outlined his face It felt as if a hundred wasps had stung Crimson streams poured from the orifice As now upon it, a mask has hung. He joins a crowd who resemble him And opens parched lips to sing a hymn But he finds out something very soon He can no longer sing the tune The incognito has dominated his soul It has sucked up every bit of life He has become a bottomless hole. The mask worsened his strife instead In despair, he rips off the cover Unleashing the flood of the painful past From his mind bloomed an opulent red flower A firework of vermillion burst Through his struggle, he is deeply hurt.

Semi-sweet and a little nutty. Introverted, socially awkward, but still easy-going and loves penning short legacies in poetry. Big on all things red, and passionate about music. Down-to-earth and enjoys short walks in mother nature's embrace. Smile people, today's going to be a great day. Try stuff you've never tried, go places, venture abroad and live a life you will remember.